It's Gonna Be Okay
by FPinFC
Summary: Based on "One Wrong Move." Do not read this story unless you've seen the episode! A tissue box is recommended. Chapters will be published serially. Chapters 1-3 cover the day of the tragedy, and 4-6 cover the day of the funeral.
1. Chapter 1 - Disintegration

Breathing was impossible.

Spike couldn't expand his chest, couldn't free his lungs from the vise that crushed them.

His knees crashed hard against the pavement, but he had no memory of having fallen. He had no memory of anything. He couldn't pull his mind together that well.

He, too, was blown apart.

Frantically, desperately, his starved brain forced him to inhale, to refuel the scream that had long since lost its voice. His gasp felt visceral, sounded like an animal moan, and grew into a fresh wail that shocked him back into reality.

But this was a reality too horrible for his mind to encase in cohesive thought. Thought would have meant comprehension, and this..._this _he did not dare to comprehend.

Finally, one thought became knowable, but only because it offered comfort.

_The boss is here._

Strong, gentle arms wrapped around him, tightening to hold him together. He curled into the embrace like a little child, clutching at the boss's sleeve, clinging to anything solid that could help his fractured soul collect itself.

Wailing, wracking sobs continued to pour out of him, completely outside of any thought of control, beyond whatever comfort that the sarge tried to give him. Each sob forced itself down to the depths of his chest until his lungs knotted and cramped, before releasing him to breathe again.

"Spikey, buddy, try to slow it down, okay? I know you're hurting something awful, but I really need you to slow down your breathing. Listen to my rhythm, buddy...in nice and slow…out nice and slow….

The cooler-headed cop part of Spike agreed. _He's right. I'm in danger of hyperventilating._ Spike focused on the Sarge's voice, taking comfort in thinking about something other than the horror behind him.

His breathing slowly calmed. He still cried, and cried hard, but not dangerously so.

The intense ringing in his ears seemed to lessen a bit, too.

Sarge stayed seated beside him and held him, quietly, gently.

A paramedic squatted beside them. "You okay, buddy? I was getting a little concerned there. Looks like you're breathing better, though."

Spike kept his eyes closed and ignored the paramedic, hoping to be left alone, but instead his lack of response earned him a quick check of his pulse. "Heart's racing a bit, not dangerously so, but I'm just gonna keep my eye on him for now, okay?"

Spike felt Sarge nod.

He opened his eyes again at the sound of people approaching. His teammates stood around him now, and every one of them looked as awful as he felt.

Ed squatted down to put a hand on Spike's shoulder, and his grief riveted Spike's attention. Ed's face was flushed, and his tear-filled eyes kept darting over Spike's shoulder to look at…..

Spike shuddered.

Jules sat down beside him and put a hand on his outstretched leg. The other hand covered her eyes, and her shoulders shook.

Sam squatted down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. She buried her face in his neck.

Spike's lungs started to catch dangerously again as his friends' pain resonated with his own and amplified it.

"Shhh, shhh, shhh," Sarge whispered in his ear. "Just focus on your breathing, okay buddy? Just focus on your breathing."

Spike nodded numbly. Denial felt like his best friend right now. He closed his eyes again.

After a few more minutes Sarge said quietly, "Let's get you to the truck, okay?"

The paramedic stepped in. "Let me check him real quick first. His breathing is still a concern." He eyed Spike closely and felt his pulse. "Yeah, go ahead, but if he starts to hyperventilate…."

"Thanks, we know what to do." Sarge patted Spike's shoulder.

Everybody reached to help Spike up, not because he needed that much help, but because they cared. This family loved each other.

Spike scanned their faces almost reflexively, looking for Lew's smile….

The realization hit him yet again, and he shuddered with fresh grief.

Sarge kept a firm hold on him, not just supporting him, but keeping him headed forward. His other friends positioned themselves behind him as a human shield, so that even though he craned his neck around, he couldn't see past them.

With each step, Spike's soul yearned more powerfully to turn around. _Back there_ was now hallowed ground.

He started to resist, to pull away. "Guys, I need to go to him, I need to be with him. He shouldn't be alone back there!"

"No, Spikey, not this time. You need to go to the truck." Sarge's tone, though gentle, was unmistakably commanding. Normally, Spike obeyed that voice unhesitatingly.

But not now. Reality was beginning to hammer him more fiercely. "Boss, no!" He struggled harder, but his friends' compassionate hands were in no way weakened by their sympathy.

"Please let me go to him!" Spike was sobbing again now. "He's my friend, he's my friend, my _best _friend, _please_, Boss!"

"C'mon, buddy." The boss tightened his grip a little. "He's not alone. There are folks back there, helping us deal with all of this. But that...that's not how he would want you to remember him, _amico mio_."

"But I owe it to him! I _owe _it to him!" Spike's knees weakened, and he stumbled, though he was too well supported to fall. "I was gonna help him!"

He suddenly seemed to see his best friend's face, sweaty with fear, and he heard once more his haunting words. His very last words.

_Spike...it's gonna be okay. _

"Lew, I was gonna help you, you should have let me try, you should have let me try!" Fresh sobs escaped him.

He longed to hear Lew's reply, but it was Sarge who spoke. "I know, Buddy, I know. If anybody could have helped him, it would have been you. It wasn't your fault, Spikey." Everyone else murmured their agreement.

They escorted him past an SUV and into the command truck. Everybody piled in with him, and when the door closed, he realized why they'd chosen this vehicle.

_No windows back here. The__y__ don't want me to see…._

His knees went rubbery, and his teammates helped him go down gently. He drew his knees up to his chest and threw his arms over his head.

"I was gonna help him." Sobs overtook him again, but they felt different this time...not because the grief was in any way diminished, but because his initial shock and panic were coalescing into a horrific certainty.

He rocked himself like a distraught child.

_Lew is dead. Lew is dead. _

Next: Ch 2 - Too Many Pieces to Mend


	2. Chapter 2 - Too Many Pieces To Mend

Most of the team stayed with Spike in the command truck, but the Sarge excused himself, regretfully, to "take care of some things."

"Boss, let _me _go…" Ed offered, but Sarge just patted his shoulder and shook his head. "I gotta do this, Buddy."

When the door closed behind the boss, Spike felt his head starting to spin with wild, frantic, crazy improbabilities. "Things would be better if I had reacted differently…."

"Don't go there, Spike," Ed said softly.

"But...but...but...if I hadn't collapsed, maybe Sarge could have helped him…he could have helped Lew instead of sitting there with me..."

Ed squatted down and looked Spike full in the eyes. "No, listen to me, buddy. It was over in an instant for Lew. He didn't suffer. And there was nothing anybody could have done. Not you, not the boss, not anybody."

"We don't know that!" Spike insisted, clinging to the wildest of chances...because a Lew who needed help would be a Lew who was still alive.

"Yes, yes, we do know that. We were facing him when it happened…." Ed's voice broke. He put a hand on Spike's shoulder, cleared his throat, and shook his head. "There was nothing anybody could have done," he continued, his voice husky with the grief that also wet his cheeks.

Spike's mind suddenly played back, in brutal detail, what he'd refused to acknowledge before. What he knew about the effect of such a landmine explosion on the human body. He'd seen it with human analog dummies...but surely the mine hadn't done that to _Lew_! Surely there was some merciful kindness out there that didn't let it do _that _to him! Anything but that!

The image devastated him, and he broke down yet again.

"The paramedics checked on him, buddy," Ed continued. He sat down beside Spike and put his arms around him much as the boss had done outside. "They would have helped if they could. But there was nothing for them to do, Spike. Your need for Greg's help didn't cost Lew anything. You hear?"

Spike nodded mutely.

"And besides that, buddy, we are so glad to still have you. Right now we could be grieving both of you, and that's something I don't even want to have to think about."

"Absolutely," Sam agreed.

"Spikey, I can't even imagine it!" Jules' added tearfully.

"Now, you're right, the boss has some final duties to take care of for Lew, and they're hard duties..." Ed continued, but Spike cut him off.

"I should be the one to tell his parents." His brushed away his tears and willed himself to calm down. His voice still sounded weak to his own ears, almost slurred in its shockiness, but he felt his convictions growing stronger despite it. "It should be me."

Ed shook his head decisively. "I don't think so, buddy."

"No, he was my best friend!" Spike's voice grew stronger, more insistent. "I know his parents, I've eaten at their house many times…." He pictured their faces, and suddenly realized exactly what it was that they would have to hear. The depth of it. The agony of it.

_Their only son. This is Lew we're talking about! _He still couldn't wrap his mind around it.

_They were so proud of him…_

Ed became a blur as Spike's eyes brimmed and overflowed again.

"Of course you can be there," Ed replied softly, cupping Spike's neck with brotherly comfort. "But Sarge was his commanding officer, and the duty falls to him. You know he would never shirk that duty."

Spike felt the world blurring even more, not just from tears, but from incomprehensibility. _He's gone forever. Forever. There's no way to bring him back. No way to change this. No rescue mission to launch. No strategy to figure out. _

_No hope._

He wiped at his eyes. "I don't know how to face them. I can't believe he's dead...how can I face them?"

"All you can do is be there, hug them, cry with them...that's what the boss will be doing, too." Ed shook his head. "That's what all of us will be doing."

Ed suddenly straightened, and his eyes took on the unfocused appearance which meant he was listening to his earpiece. He sighed at whatever he heard. "Copy that, Winnie." He sighed again and turned his focus back to Spike. "Some idiot reporter leaked the news that an SRU officer was killed, and your parents called the station. Winnie has told them that it wasn't you, but since Lew's family hasn't been notified yet, she can't tell them who it was. And neither can you, right?"

Spike blinked a few times, trying to process this line of thought. The regulations were clear enough, but how in the world could he talk to his mother in his current state without telling her that his heart was still lying out there on the pavement near whatever was left of Lew's body?

Ed's hand came to rest on his shoulder again. "Winnie says that, since she's withholding the identity, they don't quite believe her that it wasn't you. Do you think you can talk to them?"

He gulped. "Yeah. I...yeah." _I don't know how, but I'll have to manage it._

Ed reached down to Spike's hip and turned on his radio for him.

Spike stare at him, shocked all over again. "How...when…?"

"Boss turned it off when he first got to you. You were too upset to notice."

Spike only shook his head. _I'll probably never get this day sorted out. And I don't really want to._

Winnie's voice came over, gently. "I've got them both on the line. Are you ready, Spike?"

"Uh...yeah, go ahead, Winnie."

Suddenly Spike realized that he couldn't take this call sitting on the floor. This was going to need all the strength he could muster. So he struggled quickly to his feet, with a little help from Ed, and firmed up his spine against the fear he knew he was about to hear in his parents' voices.

Ed and the others moved back to a respectful distance.

"Ma? Pa?" Spike tried, and failed, to sound okay.

"Mikey, oh _mio figlio,_ is it really you?" His mother was, naturally, the one to speak first.

"Yeah, Ma, it's me. I…" His voice broke as words failed. He couldn't bring himself to say that he was okay. He was anything _but _okay.

"I'm not injured, Ma."

His mother dissolved into tears, but his father took over, and his voice betrayed deep tension. "But you sound terrible, Michelangelo. They said on the news that an officer was killed. An SRU officer! By a bomb! How could we not think…?"

"I know, Pa, it must have been terrible for you, thinking it was me. But...but it wasn't me, okay? I'm right here." His voice shook at the end, picturing once again the two parents who would not get any more reassuring calls from their son.

"But you are crying, my son. I can hear it. You're trying to hide it, but I can hear it. Who was it, _figlio mio_? Tell me."

"I...I can't."

"What? What do you mean, you can't tell me?"

"His...his family hasn't been notified yet, Pa. I can't say anything that might make them hear it through a grapevine. Those are the regulations. Non-negotiable. And...and I need to be there when they get the news. I owe it to them…." His voice failed again.

"This is a friend of yours. A friend of yours got blown up today, Mikey. You scare your Ma to death...how long can you keep this up?"

"Not now, Pa, don't start this now!" Spike half-yelled, half-sobbed it. "_Non adesso! Mi hai sentito? Ho abbastanza dolore adesso!_"

Ed's hand came down rather firmly on his shoulder, and his half-worried, half-warning expression made Spike rein himself in and steady his breathing.

The door opened and Sarge let himself in, his face pale and haggard. Ed took his comforting hand off of Spike's shoulder to put it on Sarge's. The two of them walked to the furthest corner of the truck, where they began talking in very hushed tones.

Spike's father was still in full rant. "I don't know how much more your mother can stand, Michelangelo! If you don't care about my bad heart, I can live with that, but what about your poor mother?"

Spike groaned and pulled the phone away from his ear, but even at arm's length, he could hear the angry voice. And, since he couldn't bear to hear those words anymore, he tuned in to the quiet talk from the corner.

Sarge was rubbing his face with his hands, obviously struggling to regain control of his emotions. When he finally uncovered his face, he whispered, "No human being should have to see what I just saw, Eddie. To see a friend like that...it will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life."

Spike hurriedly put the phone back to his ear. Sarge would never have wanted him to overhear that, and he fervently wished he hadn't. Even his father's anger was easier to bear than those gut-wrenching words.

"What, you're not even listening to me anymore, Michelangelo? Is that any way to treat your father?"

"Pa, I'm sorry, _mi dispiace_, it's just that I'm a little overwhelmed here."

"Well how do you think your mother feels, eh?"

"Pa, I can't talk now. I'll talk when I get home, okay? I gotta go now." He hung up and slumped into the nearest seat, swearing passionately in Italian because English couldn't begin to express his torment. Then he dropped his head down onto his folded arms and blanked out for a few moments. He didn't lift his head again until he felt someone sit down beside him.

He looked up into his boss's deeply compassionate eyes.

Sarge put a hand on his arm. "Spike...I can't even imagine what you're going through right now. We're all suffering, all grieving, but you were closer to him than any of us."

Spike just nodded mutely.

"So far there's been no call from Lew's family, which means they haven't heard the news yet. But it won't be long until someone who heard it calls them, and they call us. I need to get to them before that happens."

Spike forced himself to his feet. "I'm going with you."

Sarge just nodded. 'I knew you would. You're a good friend, Spikey, and you've got nothing to prove. You're welcome to come, but no one will blame you if…."

Spike shook his head so forcefully that the boss didn't even bother finishing.

"We're _all_ going, right, Boss?" Ed interjected, and everybody else nodded. "I mean, we can't try to debrief right now, no way. We said everything that needed to be said before the...before the explosion. We explored all our options. There's nothing more to say, and it's all on record. Our time needs to be given to his family right now."

Sarge sighed and shook his head. Once more he put a hand on his best friend's shoulder. "I really, really appreciate how badly you must want to be in on this, Eddie...and all of you...but it's not good to overwhelm the family with too many people. It has to be me, because I was his CO, and it has to be Spike, because he was his best friend. Two is enough, more would be too many. I'm sorry. But you'll have plenty of opportunities to be with them later."

Ed seemed profoundly dissatisfied, but he didn't argue. The others mirrored his regret.

"We have to go now," Sarge added, rising to his feet. "I'm really amazed they haven't called yet."

Spike rose to his feet with a determination born of love and duty. Because sometimes those two things really are one and the same.

Next: Ch 3 - The Devastation Widens


	3. Chapter 3 - The Devastation Widens

The boss kept a hand on Spike's shoulder the whole way to Lew's parents' house.

When they pulled onto the Youngs' street, Sarge spoke quietly to Winnie. "Still no call from Lew's family?"

"No, boss. Nothing."

"There's a car in their driveway," he murmured.

Spike looked up quickly, his gut twisting itself further at the sight of the familiar home where he and his friend had shared so many laughs and so much good food.

He felt the boss's eyes boring holes in him, but when he turned, he saw tears in those eyes. "Are you ready for this, Spikey?"

"No, of course not!" His voice dropped to a murmur. "But I never will be. There's no such thing as 'ready' for this. We just have to do it."

A silhouetted figure appeared in the screened doorway.

"There's his dad," Spike murmured, his mouth suddenly dry.

The boss patted his shoulder, then opened his truck door.

Spike couldn't move.

Sarge came around and opened Spike's door. "Come on, buddy, I'll help you."

"I think I might be sick."

"Close your eyes, take some deep breaths, remember the acupressure point?"

Spike nodded, fighting the rising nausea. After a few moments he nodded. "Okay, let's go." He got out shakily, and then forced himself to look at the doorway where Lew's dad still stood, watching.

A few more steps and the screen door opened. Even though they were only halfway up the yard, Spike could make out Mr. Young's features; his expression of confusion, apprehension, and strange hopefulness. After a few moments the man stepped out of his house, letting the door close behind him.

"When I saw your truck, I...I thought it would be Lew...you know, to tell me face-to-face that he's okay." His eyes darted from Sarge's face to Spike's and back again, and with each glance his worry grew exponentially.

"Mr. Young, may we go inside please?" Sarge asked quietly.

Lew's father gasped, sheer terror replacing everything else on his face. "No, no, it _can't be!_ Lew called me! He called me and talked to me! It couldn't have been him! No!" His eyes riveted themselves on Spike's face now, almost demanding the agreement that had to be forthcoming.

Spike couldn't speak.

"Please," Sarge spoke so softly it was almost a whisper. "Is your wife home?"

As if on cue, a low cry began to issue from the house. Mrs. Young stood in the doorway, hands on her mouth, wordless terror pouring from her throat in moan after moan. Her husband ran to her, yanking the door open just as she collapsed to the floor.

"Now look what you've done!" he yelled, dropping to his knees, "Upsetting Francine like this, when you know it wasn't him, you _know_ it wasn't, because he called me!" He patted his wife's cheeks and called her name a few times, before turning pleading eyes back to the sergeant. "He called me and told me to tell his mother that he loved her…." His voice choked itself off with a strangled sound as the realization struck. "Is that why he called? Is that why?"

Sarge was now trying to help Mr. Young up off the floor. Spike moved numbly to assist, guiding the shell-shocked man a few steps away and giving Sarge room to check on Mrs. Young.

She was in a semi-swoon. The boss ran one arm under her shoulders and the other under her knees, then hoisted her up and carried her to the couch.

Until she was safely settled down, Mr. Young had had eyes only for her. But now he rounded on Spike, grabbing both of his shoulders and slightly shaking him. "You're his best friend. Tell me it's not true! Tell me my son's alive! Tell me that when my wife comes to I'll be able to tell her this was all a terrible misunderstanding! Please, Spike! _PLEASE_!"

"I'm sorry." Spike could barely manage through his tears. "I'm so, so sorry Mr. Young. I'd give anything…."

Mr. Young's knees buckled. Spike and the Sarge each grabbed an arm and eased him back into a chair, where he sat moaning, tossing his head from side to side. "No, no, not Lew, my boy's not dead," he sobbed, "my boy's not dead, not my Lewis, not my boy…."

Mrs. Young began to come to, and almost instantly mingled her cries with her husband's. Spike hurried to her, leaving the boss to cope with the father's distress.

He tried to hold her, but she was wild with grief, sometimes even hitting him on the shoulders with her fists, screaming and sobbing.

Neighbors appeared at the screen door, clearly having seen and heard enough to understand. One of them wailed loudly in sympathy.

Sarge went quickly to the door, thanking the neighbors but insisting on giving the family privacy. They left only reluctantly and with much protestation, and Sarge shut the heavy wooden door behind them.

Mrs. Young finally wore herself out enough that Spike could cradle her to his chest and rock her slightly, comforting himself as well as her.

But there could be no comfort.

The boss's voice caught Spike's attention. "Mr. Young?" Sarge spoke gently, examining the distraught man's face with compassionate eyes. "Do you feel that you could walk over to your wife if I helped you? If you're not strong enough yet, we can wait, of course."

Lew's father stared wordlessly for a few moments, his chest heaving. But then he seemed to hear his wife's sobs for the first time since he'd collapsed. He instantly began struggling to his feet, and required no more than Sarge's hand on his elbow to make the short trek to the couch.

Spike moved out of his way so he could sit beside her.

Man and wife clung to each other, and Spike and the boss gave them a little distance. But not too much, in case one or both of them turned suicidal. That was always the fear at times like these.

Spike could barely breathe. He wasn't hyperventilating, but the iron fist of grief gripped his lungs mercilessly again, and it was all he could do to choke back sobs.

Sarge put a hand on his shoulder and indicated that he wanted to speak to him privately. They stepped away a little further, but still kept close enough to intervene if need be.

Sarge whispered so softly that even Spike could barely hear it. "Winnie has already informed me that the family has no registered firearms, but it's possible that Lew may have left one here. Do you know if he did?"

"No, no...his mom hates firearms. She wouldn't have allowed one to stay in the house."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah." Spike nodded, remembering her protestations when Lew wore his gun to a family picnic at the park one year. _Concealed or no, she hated knowing it was there._ He swallowed hard, remembering Lew's quiet, lovingly teasing way of handling her.

_He could always make her laugh._

_He'll never make her laugh again. _

_Or me._

Sarge thumped his shoulder a few times in wordless support. Then he led the way back to where the grieving couple sat, and squatted down in front of them.

"Mr. and Mrs. Young, I want you to know that we all thought the world of Lew. He was one of the finest cops I've ever had the privilege to serve with. And he wasn't just a good cop...he was a good man. We will miss him so much."

The parents only sobbed.

"And...and I think you should know that he saved a lot of lives today. Not least of which was Spike's. He was a loyal friend to the end. He lived… and died… a hero. And I think it's very important for you to know that he did not suffer at all. I hope that can give you some comfort…."

"COMFORT?" Mrs. Young suddenly lunged at Sarge and screamed, "COMFORT? I don't want a dead hero for a son, I want a living, breathing man for a son! If you want to comfort me, give me my boy back! I want my boy back!" She flailed at the sarge with her fists, pummeling his shoulders with every word.

He made no move to defend himself, and his eloquent face ordered Spike not to intervene. If this was the only way he could comfort her, then he would accept these blows without protest.

Mr. Young seemed too dazed to react at first, but finally he wrapped his arms around his sobbing wife and restrained her.

Spike watched helplessly, unsure of what to do. Boss seemed to want to handle the talking, and that was his forté….

_But I need to do something!_ He couldn't say so, of course, but he pled with Sarge with his eyes.

Sarge seemed troubled and uncertain. He glanced at the Youngs, but they were wrapped in a cocoon of sorrow and seemed likely to stay there for the present. So he stood and motioned Spike away to a safe distance.

"Buddy, you're going through enough right now. The last thing you need is her pounding on you, making you feel even worse…." Sarge put a hand on Spike's shoulder and squeezed it. Then he lowered his voice even more. "I'm just not sure how much to tell them, Spike. It will all come out eventually, but how much do they need to hear _now_? You know them better than I do...do you have any insights for me?"

_Do I know them better? I'm not so sure._ Mrs. Young's violent outburst was so far out of character for her that Spike felt completely unable to predict what she might do. _Grief can drive you right out of your mind. I could easily have gone off the deep end myself today...and he wasn't even my son._

"I think…" he stammered, and then suddenly felt sure. "I think you should ask them how much they want to hear."

Sarge thought that over and nodded his approval. They walked back together.

Sarge squatted down right where he had been before, right back in harm's way. "Mr. and Mrs. Young, I know that words can be so inadequate at times like this. So I don't want to say more than you're ready to hear. How much do you want to know right now?"

"I can't listen to any more!" Mrs. Young stood abruptly and hurried into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

"Just a minute," Mr. Young said, standing to follow his wife, but holding out a hand toward them. "Please don't go. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Sarge and Spike both nodded their understanding.

Mr. Young was gone a while, and from the sound of their voices, Spike judged that his attempts to comfort his wife would take him quite a while longer. He turned to go back to a chair, hoping to rest his soul-weary weight for a while.

But then he spotted it.

The door to Lew's old bedroom.

_When I had that really bad blowup with my parents last year, the Youngs let me sleep there._ He couldn't take his eyes off that door.

"Boss?"

"Yeah, Spike?"

"I need to go in there." He pointed.

"Why, Spikey?"

"It...it's the guest room. I stayed there once. But...it used to be Lew's room. It's still decorated like it was when he was a teenager. I...I need to go in there." He turned pleading eyes to the sergeant for permission.

Sarge just nodded mutely.

Spike opened the door quietly, fighting down the ridiculous notion that he should knock in case Lew was in there.

He walked in and did a slow 360, surveying the four walls of Lew's childhood retreat, stunned and almost offended by their normalcy. How could they not reel? How could they not drip with grief, as his eyes kept doing?

_The little boy that once slept here is dead. _

_Lew is dead…._

_His parents will never forgive me for letting him die. For not saving him. What kind of cop am I? What kind of friend?_

He walked around the room, slowly, reaching out to touch Lew's memorabilia as if they were sacred relics. Then he looked up at the ceiling above Lew's bed, where his old poster of Celine Dion still looked down on the place where he'd never sleep again.

Spike just shook his head, trying to absorb the reality of this loss, and worse, the finality of it.

"Spike." Sarge's quiet voice from the doorway both startled and beckoned him.

_Has Mr. Young come back out?_

Sarge nodded at Spike's unspoken question.

Spike started to walk toward the door, but then stopped at the changing expression on Sarge's face. He had turned to face the living room, and was clearly acknowledging someone's approach.

Mr. Young walked slowly into the bedroom, his tenuous composure crumbling more with every step.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Young, I'm so sorry...I wanted to come in here because...because I remembered it from the night you let me stay here and...I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have intruded." Spike realized he was babbling, and he stopped himself.

Mr. Young offered no response. He almost staggered to the bed, and sat down on it. "He used to have...these stories...he'd make them up for me and tell them to be at bedtime. Such an imagination...he looked forward to telling those stories so much, and I looked forward to hearing them. It was our special bedtime routine…."

He stared around him, looking dazed. "Funny thing is, I don't remember when they stopped. He got older. He just...he just...got _older_, and…." His voice trailed off.

Spike took a few tentative steps closer to the bereaved father and squatted down. "I'm so, so sorry."

Mr. Young didn't seem to have heard him. He spoke woodenly, without focusing his eyes on anything. "I thought we had more time. I thought…."

Finally his attention snapped to Sarge's face. "I don't know what to do. I...I need to...take care of things for him. Final...final things. And I need to take care of his mama...but I just can't...I just can't even make my mind _think_."

"That's understandable, sir. Perfectly understandable."

Sarge walked over, seeming just as tentative in his approach as Spike had been. "Of course he wrote final instructions. All SRU officers are required to do so, and to update them at least annually. They may help you, sir."

"Yes, yes, those would...yes..." Mr. Young's brief clarity had already faded, and he spoke almost mechanically.

"Do you want them emailed, or would you rather have a printed copy delivered? I can have them here within an hour if you don't have a current copy here already."

"I...I know Lew brought them, but I...I told him to file them. I don't think I could remember right now how to put my hands on them...I can't even bear the thought of digging them out...I promised myself I would never have to find them…."

"Don't give it another thought." Sarge pulled out his phone and sent a text. "I'll get them here for you." Then he squatted down and put a gentle hand on Mr. Young's arm, waiting until the man met his gaze. "What else can I do to help you now, sir? I'll gladly do anything I can. Just name it."

Mr. Young stared for a few moments, seemingly without comprehension, but then he shook himself. "Tell me how my boy died." Then, suddenly animated, he turned from Sarge to Spike. "But I want to hear it from you, Spike. From you."

Spike's stomach turned over, and he shot a quick look at Sarge.

Sarge nodded encouragingly.

"Um...well, it all started when we found out that some environmental terrorists had planted bombs…."

Spike related the whole story, slowly, pausing frequently to gauge Mr. Young's tolerance.

Lew's father listened without looking at Spike, probably picturing everything, hungry for even that ghostly image of his son which only imagination could give him now.

"So you see," Sarge added, when Spike's story came to its tearful conclusion, "Lew's presence of mind saved a lot of lives today. That building wasn't nearly through being evacuated when he stepped on the mine. And if Lew hadn't realized what he'd...what he'd felt under his boot, or if he'd panicked and jerked his foot away like most of us would have done, that mine would have cost many people their lives. He was so brave, Mr. Young. So strong and so brave."

Mr. Young said nothing, looked at nothing. But tears trailed down his cheeks, and after a minute he said, "He was my pride and joy, my treasure, my future, the father of my grandchildren that I'll never have now…." His last words came out as sobs. "My line has ended. I have no future, no legacy to leave. I should have died with him. I might as well have."

Spike buried his face in his hands and gave up his own battle for composure.

He felt a comforting arm around his shoulders, and for a moment he thought it must have been the boss...but then he realized that it was Mr. Young, comforting him, when it ought to be the other way around.

He turned and wrapped his arms around Lew's dad, feeling as if, in some way, he was giving Lew a final hug as well.

Sarge sat down on Spike's other side and did his best to wrap his arms around them both.

And now, finally, those bedroom walls did right by Lew, echoing back the grief they couldn't show by themselves.

Next: Ch 4 - To Bear in Honor


	4. Chapter 4 - To Bear in Honor

**(Two days later)**

"I've never been a pallbearer before." Spike adjusted the collar on his dress uniform, more to give his hands something to do than anything else.

"The hardest simple job in the world," Sarge replied quietly.

"I...I'm ashamed to say how much I dread this...how much I feel like I'm not…." He stopped himself, knowing that they would protest if he finished the thought, _I'm not worthy of the honor._ So he censored himself with a shrug. "But it's an honor to do it, of course….the last thing he ever asked me to do for him."

Sarge just patted his shoulder and went back to dressing.

"Have you ever been a pallbearer before, Boss?"

"Yeah. Twice before. And you're right that it's an honor, but it's a terrible thing. I won't lie to you. The weight of it…." His hand curled around an invisible bar, and his arm strained against it just a little. "Somehow it just makes it all more real."

"And you, Ed? Have you?"

Ed finished knotting his tie. "Yeah. Three times before today. Once for my uncle, twice for other cops." He slammed his locker closed. "It never gets easier."

Spike looked over at Wordy.

"This is my second time," Wordy replied to the unasked question.

"More than I care to count," Sam said as soon as Spike looked at him. "Only they weren't in any church, and they weren't caskets, they were bodybags." He shrugged. "You do what you can out in a war zone."

Spike just shook his head. "I can't even begin to imagine what this 'honor' will be like for Lew's dad."

The others grimaced and shook their heads, too.

Within half an hour they were driving to the Funeral Home. Only family and close friends would gather there.

A solemn gentleman directed them to the right parlor, and they made their way in.

Two objects riveted everyone's attention immediately. A huge but dignified photo of Lew, smiling that quiet smile, stood draped in black crepe. And beneath it, supporting it, stood the stately casket which concealed his ravaged remains.

_Of course it's closed. It has to be closed._ Spike battled down the horrific images, seen and imagined, which accompanied that thought.

_Not now. Or I'll never make it through._

While the others went forward, he hung back, unsure of what sort of reception to expect from the bereaved parents. By now the story of Lew's final moments must have had time to settle into their minds and hearts, at least enough for them to know the truth that haunted Spike's dreams as well as his waking thoughts.

_Lew chose to die rather than let me risk my life to try to save him. Every breath I draw is in debt to his ultimate sacrifice._

_So how can they bear to watch me breathe?_

Many faces turned to watch the other officers as they walked slowly up the aisle. Spike didn't recognize any of those faces, except a few that he was fairly sure were cousins.

_I know there are lots of cousins._

His teammates arrived at the front row, where Lew's parents sat wrapped in their silent grief. Mrs. Young dabbed at her eyes, and sometimes laid her head on her husband's shoulder. But when they spotted the officers, Mr. Young stood and solemnly shook hands with each of them. Mrs. Young remained seated, but she too greeted them all with quiet dignity.

Spike didn't realize until that moment that he'd been fearing a repeat of her assault on the sergeant.

But the one-by-one greetings fell short by a man. Everyone turned back to look for Spike, and all eyes filled with compassion when they saw him.

Spike silently reprimanded himself, and walked without further hesitation to honor Lew's parents.

And Mr. Young, instead of shaking his hand, wrapped him in a hug.

Spike couldn't hold back a few choking sobs as he returned the hug. He felt several masculine hands instantly come to rest on his shoulders, and Jules' slender hand on his back.

Love seemed to bathe him in that moment, and he soaked in it. _I can almost believe that Lew is here, too._

The hug finally ended, and Spike fished out a handkerchief to mop his face. He'd brought several.

A mortuary official quietly inserted himself into their little gathering. "Are you the pallbearers we were awaiting?"

"Yes," Sarge replied for them all.

"Can you all please accompany me so we can discuss the procedure?"

The six teammates and Mr. Young stepped into an office, where the official showed them a diagram of the six-bearer arrangement, and helped them decide who would stand where.

Spike and the sergeant received the two foremost positions on the two sides. The other four officers were assigned to the remaining positions by some logic or decorum that Spike didn't pay attention to.

Mr. Young would lead the procession, walking at the head of the casket in his rightful position of honor.

With these arrangements in place, nothing remained but to return to the grieving assembly, joining them in gazing at the photo, and at the casket, and at the contents of their memories.

Quiet whispers and weeping, interspersed with occasional louder cries, were the only sounds now. That and, of course, quiet, mournful music.

Winnie arrived shortly after they sat down. Spike made room for her to sit beside him, and he comforted her when she broke down. Somehow it helped him feel better, too.

The wait seemed interminable, but finally the time came. Spike and the others were beckoned up front, and for the first time Spike felt the casket's cold handle fill his hand. A quiet three-count, and they lifted the box with its heartbreaking cargo, and carried it slowly to the hearse.

Normally, as pallbearers, they would have ridden in mortuary vehicles. But since this was a police funeral, they drove a motorcade of SRU trucks instead, lights flashing, preceding the hearse to the church where the public memorial service would be held.

The church was much larger than the one which Lew's parents attended, because of course the turnout for a police officer would be tremendous.

The large marquee outside the church flashed the somber legend,

"Memorial Service in honor of Const. Lewis Young

10:00 a.m., Interment to follow Mount Pleasant

Come honor a TRUE hero.

'Weep with those who weep.'"

They had arrived early, of course, but already an impressive array of official vehicles filled a large portion of the lot. Officers in uniforms from many other cities, and even other provinces, milled around with solemn miens.

Spike's quick survey of the parked cruisers revealed that a surprisingly large contingent of officers had come from as far away as BC. He shook his head, marveling. The story had received heavy national coverage, of course, but this was still more than he had expected.

Many civilian vehicles already dotted the lot as well.

They pulled up to the Southwest entrance as per instructions, and parked at the curb of the well-tended sidewalk nearest the door.

The hearse pulled up behind them, and moments later, someone in a dark suit emerged from the designated entrance and walked over to them.

"I'm pastor Watts," he said in gentle tones. "We have a room prepared to hold the casket until it's time for the procession to the front of the church."

So Spike and the others found themselves hefting the casket again. And, once again, Spike tried to grasp the reality of Lew enclosed in that box.

_It's so wrong, so wrong!_

They set the casket down in the prepared room and looked to the pastor for instructions.

"Let me show you to the aisle that we've reserved for you. When it comes time for the coffin's processional, I'll let you know. And if you have family members who would like to sit with you in this aisle, you are welcome to have them join you."

The teammates nodded.

The pastor led them to the front, just behind the rows reserved for the closest family members. So there they sat and drowned in their thoughts again.

The church filled up quickly, and Spike was glad to see it. _Lew deserves a full house. He deserves it._

Sophie Lane arrived soon with Clark beside her, and Shelly Wordsworth and her daughters came in not long after her. They were the only family members of pallbearers who would be in attendance, and the thought made Spike grind his jaw.

His parents had made a point of refusing to come. _As if that would somehow punish me for still being a cop._ He could still hear his mother's irrational concluding argument. "_If I go to Lew's funeral, I'll be going to yours next. And besides, it's not even Catholic, so what good will it do, eh?"_

_You know...it's probably a really good thing that they're not here._

A stir at the end of the aisle made Spike look over, and his face broke into the first smile he'd enjoyed all day.

_Here's Winnie._

Without a second thought, he indicated that the spot to his right was empty. And to his delight, she made her way down to sit beside him again.

She dabbed at her eyes, and after only the slightest hint from him she looped her arm through his and rested her head on his shoulder. He patted her arm, then let his hand rest on it.

That felt right in ways that he didn't contemplate now.

Even quiet voices, multiplied by many hundreds, add up to something a bit loud. Spike felt grateful to have something other than his own thoughts to listen to.

At four minutes before the designated start time, the pastor came and tapped on Sarge's shoulder.

The pallbearers stood and proceeded solemnly down to the room off the narthex where Lew lay. They arranged themselves around the casket, and they waited.

After about two minutes of standing there, Mr. Young began fanning himself with his hand and working his collar as if he needed more air. Sarge quickly left his place and escorted him to a chair. "Get him some water, quick, Eddie!"

"No, stay there, I'll get it." The funeral official, who seemed prepared for anything, appeared with a cold bottle in a matter of moments. Mr. Young drank only a sip, preferring instead to press its cool surface against his face. "I don't know if I can do this," he rasped, clearly feeling light-headed and faint.

Everyone had gathered around him now, but not too closely, so he'd have plenty of air.

"How can we help you, sir?" Sarge asked.

"I don't know, I don't know, I just feel like I'm going to pass out."

Sarge fumbled with Mr. Young's collar. "No one will mind if your top button's not buttoned, my friend. I don't know how anyone could breathe with it so tight."

Mr. Young began to look better before long, and was able to take his place in front of the casket only three minutes after the processional had been scheduled to start.

The signal was given, the pipe organ pealed its first chest-vibrating notes, and the team lifted Lew's casket for the next leg of its journey.

They moved slowly, slowly up the aisle, past faces which stared fixedly at the flag-draped box. Mourners stood as the casket reached their aisle, or sooner in many cases.

But Spike paid little attention to them. Most of his focus remained on Mr. Young, wondering what they would do if he collapsed. As heavy as the casket was, could one pallbearer safely let go of it? And would that be a breach of decorum? Would someone else run to care for the swooning man?

But Mr. Young bravely traversed the whole awful distance, stopping only to step into the front row beside his weeping wife.

Spike and the others hefted the casket onto its stand, and returned to their aisle.

The pastor mercifully asked them to be seated without any further delay.

When Winnie resumed her dependence on his shoulder, Spike felt a sense of unexpected relief. He hadn't realized how badly he'd hoped she would.

The pastor gave a brief homily, and then turned the pulpit over to those who were scheduled to speak. Police officials at the highest levels spoke first, and then a few of Lew's friends from outside the department shared their memories.

And then Sarge took the podium, and Spike's stomach knotted in anticipation of he knew not what. Sarge hadn't previewed his speech for their ears, but Spike had no doubt that it would be bittersweet. He also felt sure that both the sweet and the bitter would bring copious tears.

Next: Ch 5 - Requiem


	5. Chapter 5 - Requiem

Sarge cleared his throat. "This is the kind of speech that no commanding officer ever wants to give. And when that commanding officer is also a friend, that makes it even harder. And Lew was both: one of the finest cops it's ever been my honor to serve with, and the sort of honest, unassuming friend that every man wants to have.

"So often, when we've suffered the loss of someone close to us, one of the hardest things we have to learn to do is to speak of them in the past tense. You'll hear people correcting themselves: 'Lew loves..._loved_ Caribbean food.' Things like that. I've caught myself doing it too. 'Lew does..._did_ his job so well.'

"But when I sat down to try to put my thoughts on paper for today, with all of the agonies of this time still swirling around in my brain and clutching at my throat, I found that I couldn't write one particular thing in the past tense. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it's best to leave some things in the present tense forever."

He cleared his throat again, shook his head a little, and drew in a few deep breaths, obviously struggling with his emotions.

Winnie squeezed Spike's arm and leaned harder into him. He bent and rested his cheek on top of her head for a few moments.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Jules dabbing at her eyes, and Sam comforting her.

"So," Sarge continued, "I cannot bring myself to say that Lew 'was' a hero. Heroism does not end with the life that showed it. It lives on in all the lives it touched. Ask me, ask any of Lew's teammates, ask any of the scores of people whose lives Lew saved with his last, heroic act. Look in their eyes. Look in the eyes of their loved ones who still have them to hold. And you will know, as I know, that there's nothing 'past tense' about Lew's heroism. It's here in this room right now, and it will go home with each of us at the end of this day. It will follow many of us for the rest of our lives."

Many voices murmured their agreement from points all around the auditorium.

Spike nodded and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. His eyes burned, but despite his tears he could see well enough to know that everyone else on the team beside him, and Lew's relatives in front of him, were nodding and weeping too.

But none of them bore the burden he bore, the guilt he felt. _Every breath I take is stolen from Lew's lungs. And I don't know what to do with that._

Sarge seemed to be looking right at Lew's mom now. "But heroism, as wonderful as it is, is not something you can wrap in your arms like a son, not something you can trade jokes with, like a friend. So while we honor Lew's heroism that lives on, we never, ever forget that we've lost someone irreplaceable. We cannot forget the tragedy which comes from the sort of hatred that breeds the violence which ripped our friend, our brother, our loved one away from us. And how will we cope with such wrongness? With such evil?

"I believe Lew showed us the way. Because when hate wanted to kill large numbers of people, Lew's love saved all of them…at the cost of himself. When evil wanted to destroy, love rescued. And I believe that if Lew could talk to us right now, he would plead with us not to give in to hate, to evil, in our own hearts.

"What we carry in our hearts, we spread to others. It can't work any other way. We cannot give away what we do not have, and we can't help giving away whatever fills our hearts. And if you're tempted to think, 'What good did love do Lew? Didn't it get him killed?' then I beg you to listen to what Lew himself said in my presence not long ago."

Sarge cleared his throat again, pausing to collect himself.

"One of our main jobs in the SRU is crisis negotiation. Each of goes through rigorous training in order to make sure that we can connect with people during the worst moments of their lives, in order to help them through it if at all possible. So, about a month ago, Lew was in one of those negotiating situations, trying to talk a distraught man out of committing suicide, when I heard him speak these profound words:

"'Sir, I'm hearing you say that when you lost your beautiful wife, you lost love itself. And I know how bad it hurts to lose someone you love, believe me. I hear you about that. But I gotta tell you, from what you've said about your wonderful marriage, it sounds like the love was a two-way street there, wasn't it? Did I hear you right?' And the man nodded.

"'Well,' Lew continued, 'Can you tell me, sir, which half of that love was better? The giving part, or the receiving part...can you tell me which was better, sir?'

"Now, as Lew's commanding officer, I was listening very intently to make sure that the negotiations were going well, and to give advice if need be." Sarge shook his head. "But I didn't have a clue where Lew was going with this line of thought. It wasn't something I'd ever trained him to say. But he sure sounded confident. He wasn't floundering, or desperately searching for words. This was coming out of somewhere real, somewhere deep inside of him, so I didn't interfere.

"The subject...the man considering suicide...looked at Lew like he was crazy. 'Which is _better_? Man, that's like asking which half of your heart is better. I need them both. And they're both gone.' And I gotta tell you, I was getting ready to jump in and advise Lew, or maybe even take over for him, because I was thinking, 'This isn't going well, and Lew's sure saying some off-the-wall stuff!'''

"But before I could jump in, Lew started talking again. He said, "No sir, no sir. The ability to receive love _from her_ is gone, and the ability to give love _to her_ is gone. Nobody's denying that, and it hurts something awful. But I'm learning that my heart heals every time I give love, even if I can't give it to a certain person anymore. And I can't help believing that there are other people in this world that you can give love to. Children, grandchildren, neighbors, people in need...every time you give love to someone, your own heart heals a little. Because you said yourself, giving love is like half your heart. It's just as important as receiving it. And you know what else I've learned?' And the man said, 'What?' And Lew said, 'The more love you give, the more love you receive. And pretty soon, you have a whole heart again, sir. And isn't that what you want? A whole heart? You'll never find it by jumping off a ledge, sir. You'll find it by giving love to those in need. Now who can you think of who needs a hug from you right now?'"

Lew's relatives were goners by now.

Spike wasn't doing any better. He'd heard that whole exchange when it had originally happened. He'd been standing only a few feet from Lew, feeling as moved by those words then as he was now.

Sarge gave them...and himself...a few moments to pull themselves together.

'"Sir, who needs a hug from you right now?' Lew asked again, and the man said, 'My granddaughter Ashley. She's a hugger. She needs a hug right now.' And he stepped back off the ledge into Lew's arms.

Sarge stood silent for a long while, letting the assembly recover from the emotional outbursts he'd caused.

"So now I ask you, what good did love do for Lew? Does he seem like a young man who wasted all that goodness? Do you think he'd rather have had a longer life if it had meant living without love for his fellow man?"

Many heads shook, and several voices replied aloud.

"So I believe that the best way, the _best_ way we can honor Lew's memory, and the best way we can keep a part of him alive in our hearts, is to be people who love and serve the way he did. I can think of no legacy that would please him more. I can think of no better way to try to overcome the evil in this world, than to make sure we spread its opposite."

He paused again, but this time he seemed to be taking a visual survey of the entire assembly. "Now, there's one other brief thing I want to say before I give this podium to others who will use it better than I can. As I said, in the SRU we're trained in psychological profiling, and one thing we learn a lot about is 'survivors' guilt.' Since this is an open service, with a packed house of...what...about two thousand? In a crowd this size, it seems quite possible to me that there are many here who never had the privilege of knowing Lew. And there's a good chance that some of you are here because you were in that other building two days ago, and Lew saved your life at the cost of his own. Not just 'lots of people's lives,' but _your_ life. And chances are, you don't know what to do with that fact. Chances are, you feel guilty."

Spike couldn't look at Sarge anymore.

"If that's the way you're feeling, let me tell you one other thing I heard Lew say. We were talking in the truck on the way back from a call a couple of months ago. Things had gone really, really well, and Lew was pumped. He said to me, "Boss, this is what life's all about!" And I said, "Yeah, it sure is," or something like that. And then he got a thoughtful look on his face, and he looked at me with that expression...you know the kind...like he was debating with himself about whether or not to let the conversation get more personal. He decided to take the plunge, and I'm glad he did.

He said, 'Boss, you wanna know what I fear more than death?' And I said, 'What?' And he said, 'Not having anything more to offer.' And I was blown away because, you know what? That's my worst fear, too. Obsolescence. So I said to him, 'Me too. I hope to live a good long time, but if I end up dying young...well...young-_ish_...it's too late for young….'" He reached up and ran a hand over his bald head, and people actually chuckled.

"I said, 'if I die young-ish, doing my duty, making a difference, that's not such a bad thing. I can sure think of worse.' And he said, 'That's exactly how I feel. If I go young...'" and Sarge paused to make another visual sweep of the room.

"I swear to you, I'm not making this up to suit the need of the moment. This is what Lew really said, and he looked me right in the eyes...cause we were at a red light...and he was totally sincere. He said, 'People dying young because of something stupid like drugs, or something crazy like an accident, _that's_ a tragedy. But people dying young because they were living life to the fullest and making a difference in the world, it's sad, you know, but it's not a tragedy.' And then he shook his head, and he said, 'Man, I know people who are living, breathing tragedies. They're comfortable doing absolutely nothing of any value, nothing with any meaning. They're walking around empty. _That's _a tragedy.' And then the light turned green, and I drove on, and that was the end of the conversation. I never dreamed how much those words would come to mean, just a few short months later."

Another pause, punctuated with many sounds of grief from the assembly. Spike looked down at nothing, blinking away tears. He hadn't been privy to that conversation, but he could easily picture it in his mind's eye, and could hear Lew's voice saying those words.

"If you hear nothing else I say today," Sarge continued, "please hear this. If Lew Young gave his life for you…." he paused for so long that Spike finally looked up. And a jolt went through him when he saw that the boss was staring straight into his eyes.

"If Lew gave his life for you," he spoke right into Spike's soul, "know this. _Know this_. Loving and serving you gave his life meaning, and it gave his death meaning, and he has no regrets. He wouldn't want you to have any, either. _Know that_." His gaze never wavered from Spike's as he spoke, and even after he was through, they held that gaze for a while. Then he said, "Thank you," and stepped down to rejoin them in their pew.

Spike buried his face in his hands, elbows on his knees, and wept as he hadn't allowed himself to do today, though as quietly as he could. Winnie hugged him from his right side, and Sam put a hand on his back from the left side.

And there, in the privacy of his thoughts, he began to talk to his friend. _"I'm breathing, Lew...thanks to you...is it okay, really? Is it okay?_"

The answer he pictured certainly seemed true to his friend's character...but his character as it was when he was annoyed. _Don't be ridiculous, Spike, why on earth wouldn't I want you to enjoy what I gave you to enjoy? Get a grip!_ Spike could even see the mild irritation on Lew's face before he turned to walk away, shaking his head.

_Don't go, Lew!_

Spike suddenly found it much, much harder to keep his grief quiet. More hands touched him.

Ed's voice came over the speakers now, but Spike couldn't sit up yet. He listened through his grief, though. And Ed, being Ed, soon had everyone laughing. Story after story of Lew at his funniest, until even Spike had to sit up and watch and laugh through his tears.

Sam, Wordy, and Jules all took their turns, though they said much less than Sarge had (and Jules could hardly say anything at all). Though brief, each little speech showed another facet of Lew, and why he was so special, and why he would be missed so much.

And now, heaven help him, it was Spike's turn. But maybe it was a good thing he'd just cried so much. Since he'd gotten it out of his system first, maybe he'd make it through.

He ascended to the podium and took a moment to look at the expectant faces all around him. But in the end, he had to focus on the ones he knew. They alone could help him do this.

"My name is Michelangelo Scarlatti, and Lew was my best friend," he began. "Lew called me 'Spike.' That's what all the guys at work call me."

He paused. "We had just taken a vacation together, down to Ocho Rios, in Jamaica, right before...right before he died. In fact, we had such a great time down there that we delayed our return, rather than giving ourselves a day or two back at home to recover like you're supposed to do. So we flew into Toronto the night of our last day of vacation, and had to go in to work the very next day. Neither of us ever dreamed, _ever _dreamed, that it would be his last day on this earth."

He sniffed.

"You know, I have my talk all written out here," he waved a few pages in the air, "but I don't think I'm going to use it. Because I don't really have the words down here that match what I have…" he pointed to his heart, "...in here."

He paused to wipe at his eyes with his handkerchief.

"You see, the funny thing is, Lew and I went down to Ocho Rios together, but we didn't spend a whole lot of time together once we were there. I happened to run into an old girlfriend that I hadn't seen since High School, and she's currently living in Alberta, so we knew that whatever fun time we had in Jamaica, it would be 'no-strings-attached.' Almost like stepping outside of reality. And we had a really, really great time. But she only had a few days left on her vacation, and when she went back home, I went back in search of Lew. But he'd met a really, really pretty Jamaican gal, so I still didn't spend a lot of time with Lew…."

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

"And, like I said, it was like a trip to a fairy tale. It was like it wasn't real. And people need to get away like that sometimes. But here's the thing. When the fairy tale ended, those relationships ceased to matter. But Lew was still my best friend. And no matter how fun it is to live a fantasy now and then, it's more meaningful to have a friend like Lew who makes real life better."

He paused to survey the crowd again before turning his attention back to those he knew.

"Yeah, Lew and I did real life together. And some of it was no fun at all. Police work is hard, hard stuff. It's kind of a cliché to say that friends laugh and cry together, but we really did. And somehow, having Lew there made the hard times so much easier.

"One time we were involved in a manhunt in the woods, which is not a scene I'm real comfortable with. I'm a city boy, through and through. If it's not city, then make it a beach. But no woods, please! And the guy we were hunting down had military training, and he'd stolen some really dangerous weapons on top of that. He ended up launching some ammonium triiodide into my back, which literally set my back on fire. And Lew…" Spike half-laughed, half-sobbed at the memory. "...Lew ended up burning his hands while putting out the fire on my back. So at the end of the day, my back's in agony and all bandaged up, his hands are in agony and all bandaged up, and we're a mess. And we gather up our gear to head home, and without thinking I throw my pack around onto my back, and when it hits my back it's like catching fire all over again, you know? It hurt so bad. And here's Lew, hands all bandaged, real quick just taking my pack and carrying it on his arm, 'cause that's the kind of friend he is. Was. _Was_."

He wiped at his eyes again, and struggled for several long seconds. "There's that past-tense thing again, Boss. It's going to take a while." He paused and plied his handkerchief again.

Sarge nodded sadly.

"And here's another thing about me and Lew. He and I both come from close-knit families, and we've both known all our lives that we were family guys. We each hoped to find the right gal to raise a family with. And we talked, you know, about how his kids would call me 'Uncle Spike," and my kids would call him 'Uncle Lew.' Well, that's never going to happen now, and I can't even...can't even begin to process that fact. But I do know that, if I ever do have a family, my kids are going to know all about their 'Uncle Lew,' and what a hero he was...and _is._ They're going to know that, without their Uncle Lew, they wouldn't be here at all."

He took another long break to collect himself.

"Because I...I was one of the ones he died to save." Spike took a few very deep breaths. "I was determined to do my level best to save him from that...from that mine. I've done some research since then, to see if my plan would have worked, and the fact is...the fact is, it wouldn't have. I would have been killed right along with him if I'd tried. And he knew that, even though I wasn't willing to admit it to myself. I was sure I was going to do it, I was going to save him, because the thought of losing him was...it was unthinkable." He rubbed hard at his eyes.

"So, when I walked away to get the supplies I needed for what would have been a suicide mission instead of a rescue mission, Lew told me over my...over my headset…" he tapped his ear. "...He said, 'Spike, it's gonna be okay.'" Spike sobbed out those last few words, and spent a few moments in deep breathing before he could go on. "I said something like, 'Yeah, Lew.' And then...and then he deliberately lifted his foot, triggering the mine while I was a safe distance away, so I wouldn't be able to kill myself trying to save him."

Mr. and Mrs. Young were clinging to each other now, weeping silently.

"No one could ever have a better friend than that. And yet, and yet, I'm having a hard time forgiving him, you know? For doing something I'll never, never be able to pay him back for. I'm forever in his debt, and I don't know how to pay it. I guess like the old saying goes, and like Sarge was talking about, I need to just pay it forward, and keep his memory always alive in my own heart, and in the family I hope to have. I can do no less. I hope you all will find your own ways to keep Lew alive in your hearts, too."

And Spike returned to his seat. His teammates all patted him as he went by, and no eyes were dry.

Winnie buried her face in his shoulder while they both pulled themselves together.

Spike wiped at his eyes a few times and then looked up, because he could hear somebody messing with the mic.

It was Mr. Young.

Spike's heart did a flip. _I don't know if I'm up for this._

Next: Ch 6 - Stumbling Forward


	6. Chapter 6 - Stumbling Forward

Mr. Young mopped at his face for quite a while up there, sometimes even breaking down completely. But he waved off any offers to help him back down, and finally he began to speak.

"I cannot thank you all enough for coming, to honor the memory of my son. And even more thanks go to those of you who spoke. You gave me such comfort, and I will never forget that.

"I really don't know what I can add to what has already been said. Oh, I could talk for days about what a wonderful young man he was. Days and days. But...but I'd never make it through that.

"But I paid very close attention to what his teammates said. I've never really gotten to know any of the other SRU officers except for Spike, his best friend. I knew that Lew thought the world of them all, and considered them his second family.

"And I think I need to follow Sergeant Parker's advice, about filling my heart with love and giving it out to others to help myself heal, especially since hearing the story about my son giving the same advice to a despondent man. I needed to hear it. I needed those words, because I am despondent. I won't lie. I wanted to die the day they told me my boy was never coming home. I wanted to die."

He needed another long break.

"It was Sergeant Parker and Spike who came and told us. They spent hours with us, and they cried with us, and they told us everything that happened, and they hugged us. We were too distraught to appreciate it at the time, but I thank you gentlemen now. You are good men."

Sarge and Spike just nodded tearfully.

"Those of you who know my family know that Lew is our only child. We always wanted to have more, lots more, but the good Lord had other plans. We never understood why, and we'll never understand why he has taken our only child from us. We can only trust. We can only trust.

"But if the path to healing is through loving, then I have a request to make. And I didn't know even this morning that I was going to make this request. I hope it's not out of line."

Spike had listened all this time without looking directly at the podium. In his pain, he hadn't felt up to both seeing _and_ hearing. But that was about to change.

"My request is for Michelangelo Scarlatti...Lew's best friend 'Spike.'"

Spike jumped and felt his breathing stop entirely for several seconds. But he gave Mr. Young his undivided attention.

Winnie squeezed his arm, and everyone else on the team looked over at him. Unless it was his imagination, they looked a little worried for him.

"Spikey, if you ever have that family...and I pray to God you will...if you ever have that family, I don't want them to only know about their Uncle Lew. Would it be okay if they also know their Great-Uncle Clarence and their Great-Aunt Francine? Would you let them call us that? Would you bring them over sometimes to fill our walls with the laughter of little children again? And will you come over yourself for dinner sometimes, even before you have that family, just to be...to be one of us again? We don't want to lose that."

"Yes, absolutely," Spike replied, amazed that his voice worked even a little. He nodded vigorously too, in case his answer hadn't carried.

He could already picture his little ones at the Youngs' house, and the image was sweet.

###

The locker room was eerily silent as the men changed back into their street clothes. After so many words had been spoken, and so many tears had been shed, everyone seemed to have retreated into some soundless inner sanctum.

Sam finally broke the silence with a quiet "See ya" as he walked out, but his teammates only replied with nods. Eventually each of the others left, one-by-one, with nothing more than thumps on the back to acknowledge their parting.

Everyone, that is, except Spike and Sarge.

Spike barely noticed that Sarge was still there. His attention was riveted on Lew's locker, and on the plaque which already hung there, commemorating his sacrifice. Some little voice in the back of his head told him he ought to leave, told him he'd focused on this agony long enough for one day.

But he couldn't walk away. Couldn't look away.

_How can you be gone?_

Sarge's hand on his shoulder finally broke the spell. "Maybe you should go home now, Spikey."

"Yeah, I know I should." He didn't budge.

Sarge walked over to a bench and sat down, giving Spike a little more room and time, but apparently unwilling to leave him entirely alone.

"But…?" Sarge finally asked.

"I just don't get it," Spike spoke with sudden heat, turning to face the sergeant at last. "I just don't get it! How can someone be so full of life one moment, and then just gone..._forever_...the next?"

Sarge only shook his head, his expression regretful.

"He was too young to die," Spike added, turning back to look at the plaque again.

"But he _did_ die, Spikey. He did. And somehow we have to find the strength to go on."

Spike said nothing, but he felt his nostrils flare the way they did when a thought disgusted him.

"Tomorrow we start vetting candidates, Spike. Candidates to bring us back up to full strength, to a team of seven again. That's going to be hard."

Spike felt his breathing coming short again. He shook his head. "I don't know if…"

"..._how_. You don't know _how._ There can be no _ifs,_ Spike."

Spike closed his eyes and drew in a long, slow breath. "I remember when Jules was shot, and Donna came in to take her place. Sam couldn't stand the sight of her, and he didn't mind making it obvious, either."

"I remember."

"Once, over a couple of beers, Lew told me that he was disappointed in Sam. He said that no one team member had the right to risk the unity of the team, not for any reason."

"He was wise."

"I agreed with him, at the time. But I just don't see how…."

The boss stood and put his hand on Spike's shoulder. "At least '_How'_ is the right question. And Spikey, you're one of the finest cops I've ever worked with. I know that you'll find the way, because you're too good of a cop not to."

Spike snorted. "I've been such a wreck these past few days…."

"Hey, If it had been Eddie who stepped on that mine, instead of Lew, and I'd lost my very best friend...buddy, you don't even want to imagine what a mess I would have been. What a mess I would still be. I was thinking about it last night, that 'soul-connection' that best friends have, and that honestly, if Ed were to die, I think it would cost me the sobriety I've worked so hard to maintain. I think I'd just fall apart completely."

Spike looked into Sarge's eyes with all the sincerity in his soul. "Please don't ever let anything do that to you, Boss. Please. You mean too much to the rest of us. We need you."

"And we need you, Spike. Much more than I think you realize."

Spike managed a little smile, and looked down at his shoes. He never knew how to respond to such kindnesses from such great people as his teammates, and especially from the boss.

"C'mere." Sarge tapped Spike's shoulders and pulled him in for a back-thumping hug. Then he took Spike's shoulders in his hands and looked him straight in the eyes. "You'll make it through this, buddy. You'll find your way. You'll help us rebuild this team. I know you will."

Spike looked down again, chewed his lip, and nodded. "I'll do my best, boss. I won't let you down."

"I know you won't." Sarge thumped his shoulders and turned to go. "I'll walk to your car with you, buddy."

Spike turned for one last, lingering look at Lew's plaque, and then turned to follow the Sarge.

Sarge put an arm across his shoulder as they walked.

Neither of them spoke until they got to Spike's car. And then, when Spike did unburden himself, he wasn't sure he should. "I hope...I hope you'll understand if I still have a hard time with the new person. I mean, I'll get it together... I will...but...maybe not perfectly at first. Is it even okay to say that?"

Sarge nodded. "Yeah, Spikey. It's okay to say that. Between you and me, I'll have a hard time, too." He opened Spike's door for him, and patted the roof a few times by way of 'goodbye' before heading for his own car.

Spike sat and watched him go, and a truly agonizing thought stabbed him. _If Lew could die, so could Sarge. Or Ed, or Jules, or any of them._

Sarge climbed into his sedan and drive away, lifting a hand to Spike in a token wave as he drove past.

Spike remained parked in the garage for quite a while, struggling with the crushing fear of further loss. _Loving people may be what makes life worthwhile, but it also makes death unbearable. I don't know if I can do it, if I can risk it anymore._ He could almost see himself walking into work with a shell around himself, no longer touchable, no longer vulnerable. The image held an undeniable appeal.

But then he pictured the guys in the locker room, and saw them looking at him with concern and pain in their eyes. He imagined the brotherly appeals, the worried counsel, the heartfelt attempts to melt his defenses and bring him close again. In each scenario he tried to imagine shoring himself up against the love of his friends.

But then he always melted, always broke, always accepted their offered embraces, or initiated a hug himself, often with tears.

He shook his head and started his engine at last.

_There's just no way not to love this team._

_And I wouldn't have it any other way._

_No matter how much it scares me._

He steered his car through the maze of the garage and out into the sunshine, squinting against the unwelcome brightness.

_The sun's still shining, Lew. It seems wrong, somehow._

He turned a corner and headed toward home.

_But I don't think you'd want it to stop shining, would you, bro? And you wouldn't want me to stop loving, or stop living._

He took advantage of a stop sign to run his sleeve across his eyes.

_I'll try. _

_It'll be hard, but I'll try._


End file.
